


Last Legs

by Pares (kormantic)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Episode: s04e08 The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg, Impending Hyperthermia, Impending Hypothermia, M/M, Mattress Shopping, More Sharing a Bed, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Post-Series, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, cabin in the woods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-09-20
Updated: 2000-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kormantic/pseuds/Pares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim ponders mortality and solitude. Blair considers buying a bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Legs

**Author's Note:**

> This story is for Joanne, who requested a specific scene a ridiculously long time ago. I hope you dig it, Joanne! Tragically, I'm only just now getting to it. It is also for my pal Mel, that stoic child. And it would have been a pretty shabby story, if Anne hadn't been stern with me. I thank her for her kind diligence and attention to wandering plot.

The waitress breezes by with a fresh pot and tops me off, and I dump some skim milk in my mug. I stir the coffee maybe more than it actually needs to be stirred, and then I get to the point. 

Deep breath. 

"Do you want to get married?" 

Megan chokes a little on her Sprite. 

"Oh! Sandy... I'm... I'm flattered, really, but... I just had no idea..." 

I can't help it; I laugh. I shake my head and wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. 

"Not to me." Megan's cute, no question, but I had to stand on tiptoe just to kiss her that time, and then she _bit_ me, and not in a sexy way. "You know, just in general." 

"Oh. Well... Yes." Megan's polite smile relaxes into a sort of dreamy look. She and Rhonda had a secret stash of bridal magazines at the station. "I'd like to be married one day. Have a tot or two." 

"Good, good." I have to play this right... "You know, what about Jim?" But why beat around the bush? 

"Are you trying to set me up with _Jim_?" She drops her fork, eyes round. "Oh Sandy...! You're trying to marry him off!" She giggles, slim shoulders wiggling attractively under her jacket. 

Turn on the charm, Sandburg. Time to pitch some woo. 

"Well, you know... he'd be lucky to have a woman like you. Smart, beautiful, with a... a strong sense of fashion. And he's not a bad looking guy! I mean, he keeps in shape and everything. And you know he's a Sentinel! Think about what that could bring to the bed-- uh, I mean the table." Smooth, Sandburg. Smooth. 

She giggles some more, gasping. So this is girlish glee, Australian style. This isn't exactly going the way I'd planned it. 

Admittedly, it was a bad idea from the get go. 

But I'm running out of good ones. 

"Sandy! I understand what you're trying to do, really. And... it's very sweet. But... although Jim is quite good looking.... very, very good-looking, and I think the world of him, I do. But... Sandy. 

"You remember when we were on the stake out that time? And I had to kiss Jim for our cover? Well... It was like kissing my Uncle Mowry." She wrinkles her nose fondly. "I'm sorry, Sandy, but it wouldn't work out. 

"I know you're only trying to see that he's happy... and I'm quite flattered. But are you sure it's me you want to put in bed with him?" 

I stare at her a second before I realize what she's saying. Whoa! I chuckle, trying to sound amused, but mostly I'm nervous and off guard and the chuckle's a little higher than Megan's giggle. 

Man, confess to fraudulent anthropological findings on live television _one_ time and you lose your mojo in a major way. I have zero credibility at the moment, even though Megan knows better. 

"I know how it sounds. But I just mean-- I mean, he was my thesis project for years. I can tell that he's upset about something. And you know about Veronica and Al... You know how his relationships have a strong... Uh... criminal element. 

"Jim is Most Eligible Bachelor material, Megan. Don't say no yet." 

The words are still floating around my head like bad reefer when I suddenly realize Jim's glaring at me by the hostess podium at the door. 

He looks pissed, to say the least. In fact, I've only seen Jim at this level of pissed twice before... and third time isn't going to be a picnic, either, apparently. 

Megan follows my guilty look and makes some small "uh oh" sound. 

"I guess I don't have to ask if he heard us, eh?" Megan whispers. 

I start to climb out of the booth. Damage control. How much had Jim heard? From the look on his face, I bet he'd had ringside seats for the whole bout. 

"Jim, man, wait--" 

But Jim's already turned on his heel and stalked out. 

Shit shit shit... 

I slump back in my seat and Megan squeezes my wrist gently. 

"He'll understand," she says. 

"Man, I hope so. Look, let me buy you dinner," I stuff two twenties in her hand, "and get back to you later. I'm gonna get home. The sooner I explain this, the better. Besides, maybe by the time Jim gets to the loft, he'll have cooled down..." 

Megan looks as skeptical as I feel, and she says, "Sandy. Just so you know... as generous an offer Jim's hand is and all... But Rafe and I are seeing each other." 

I grin at her. "Good for you!" It's the kind of thing I would have known already if I was spending any time at the station. "That's really cool. I hope it works out." 

She smiles at me again and I half-hug her on my way out of the restaurant. 

Time to face the music. Of course, the best defense is a good offense. 

All I need to do is prep a little during the ride home. 

* * *

I can hear Sandburg climb the stairs, basically shouting the name of every woman I've had to the loft in the last four years. I stop pacing and cock my head. What the hell...? 

"...Beverly Sanchez, the DA, Cassie, sort of, the fire inspector babe, Debra... Debra Reeves! Emily Carson was basically a cop's wife, Elaine Walker worked for Fish and Game... Carolyn, obviously. Then Laura, Lila, Veronica... Alex." By the time he's unlocked the door, he's counting off on his fingers, looking a little cranky. 

"You made a _list_?" I don't know about this guy sometimes. I'm semi-outraged, but also a little impressed. I doubt I could name more than two of _his_ conquests. 

"Jim you date two kinds of women. Cops. Or criminals." He pauses for effect. "And now, all your old flames are married, Cassie met a doctor, Beverly got back with her ex... That ATF agent, Jenna Drennon..." 

"I never dated her." 

"Well, good. Because she's got a girlfriend now." 

I glower at him and he raises his hands in that 'hey, don't shoot' stance he's gotten so good at. 

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Anyone could see she had it bad for you. That flowered apron of yours is like Spanish fly." 

I don't crack a smile. I'm gonna stay angry about this. Even though I'm not sure why. 

"And Angela Kimoro is still undercover. So, I figured... Megan. I thought I might pass the way of the shaman to her." 

"WHAT?" 

"Jim, she's very spiritual in her way. And... This can't last forever. You've got a healthy sex drive, and you're going to want to get married, raise a family... I certainly can't rent a room from you and the Mrs.." 

"Why not?" 

"Jim! Come on! What about my wife, my family?" 

"You don't have one," I say reasonably. 

He laughs. 

"Well, that doesn't mean I won't. Or something. One day. 

"Look, she believes in the spiritual world, she's familiar with several aboriginal practices and she already knows you're a Sentinel. And she's already a cop, and she's your acting partner, anyway." 

"And this arranged marriage you've been scouting for me..." 

"It's all been rendered moot, Jim. She and Rafe are officially an item. She has a thing for him. She does _not_ have a thing for _you_. So what's the big deal?" 

"You were trying to marry me off," I sneer. "What, since you flunked out of the academy you've got so much time on your hands you need to play Yenta?" 

Blair looks like he's been sucker punched. 

What the _fuck_ did I just say? 

"I'm sorry. I'm... Blair, I didn't mean it...." 

"Yeah. Yeah, you did. Jim, I've been tearing my hair out.... I know you're disappointed and it's killing me, but I'm just never gonna be able to pull a gun. My 'hands on' experience was always shaky, at best. He who hesitates is _lost_ , man. And I choke every fucking time. I thought maybe I could be a crime scene photographer, or... Forensics, maybe. But I can't be an M.E. I can't. I thought, you know, maybe, forensics on the scene... You still need me out there, I know it. But I just don't know how I'm going to explain it. I haven't figured an angle yet... 

"And you don't have to marry Megan. But maybe she can guide you anyway. You're already partners, and she's been transferred permanently and it looks like she'll be getting a green card if things kept up with Rafe like they are..." 

I do not want to hear this, so I interrupt him. "Why are you still working at Gillie's?" 

"Huh?" 

"You've been working there for three months now. Aren't you going to do anything about getting something even vaguely related to your field?" 

"We discussed this, man." And he sounds so fucking _weary_. "There isn't a university on the planet that would let a public fraud take any role on campus that doesn't involve a mop. It's just temporary, Jim--" 

"You could have cashed in on me. But you didn't. And now you're waiting tables. You went to school forever and you're slinging hash... at a _chain_ restaurant... It's killing me, Chief." 

"Killing _you_? That's your big objection!?" His voice climbs to an incredulous squeak. But it scares me. "You know, I keep a change of clothes in the car, and I try to stop at the Y to shower before I get home if my shift isn't too late, because all I can think of is, if the reek of bleach and dirty dishes and old steak makes _my_ stomach churn, it's gonna make _you_ puke. I'm trying to re-group Jim, okay? I'm fucking thirty years old, man. Plans I'd had for upwards of ten years got shot to fucking hell, and then, guess what, my Plan B was a big bust, too! How the fuck do you think that makes _me_ feel? Huh? 

"I _tried_ okay? I _want_ to be there for you. It fucking _sucks_ to know you're out there without me, and to know that I'm not ever going to be able to watch your back like you need--" 

I don't know what else to do to make him stop, so I wrap him up. He rubs his face against my shoulder, for just a moment, before shoving me off. 

I latch on to his wrist, because it looks like he's gonna storm out the door, and he just stares at my hand. 

"God, Chief," and I can't make it louder than a whisper. "I fucked up. I don't know what I'm saying." 

Finally, he lifts his head and nods a little. I loosen my hand and he tugs his arm away from me, but gently. 

"It's okay. I... I'm sorry, too. I wasn't really trying to... I mean, I guess I _was_ trying to marry you off. But... Fuck, Jim." 

It's all I can do to keep my hands at my sides, when all I want to do is press him to my skin and _hold_ him there, 'til he promises never to leave, never to walk around with that lost, shocked look, like he doesn't know who he is. Like he doesn't recognize himself. 

He runs a hand through his long hair and sighs. 

"I need some perspective, I guess. Some time to figure out what's next for me." 

Closing his eyes, he drops down on to the couch, spreading out and looking... beaten. 

I take a seat next to him and pat his knee. 

"Hey, Chief. Let's take off this weekend. A couple of days to ourselves. We'll go up to the mountains, and we can do some Sentinel tests... it'll be just like old times. And I could look around, see what's up there. I'm thinkin' maybe I could get a little cabin up there, you know?" 

* * *

Sure. Why not. My professional career is a shambles, and my best friend's life may be permanently endangered because I can no longer do my amateur job... Let's go camping! 

Get a cabin. Rough it. 

Wait a minute. 

Maybe 'I' could? 

I know it's not that he wants to get away from _me_ , necessarily, but I feel defensive about it anyway. I mean, Jim could probably really use some time just by himself. Because when you think about it, what was true for Sartre was true to the tenth power for Jim. For a Sentinel, hell _is_ other people. 

Just going to the station every day must be like taking the rush hour bus in New Delhi at the height of summer. Christ, it gives me the heebie jeebies just thinking about it. 

"Chief?" Jim snaps his fingers twice and I blink at him. 

"Huh?" 

"Is that a yes?" 

"Uh, yeah. Yeah. That might be a good idea. Shalondra was telling me she could use a few more shifts, anyway. I'll give her a call." 

He musses my hair and ducks his head so I won't see how relieved he is. 

* * *

Simon brings Darryl up here about twice a year. For a while, we kicked around the idea of buying a cabin and splitting the cost, but we both knew we would never have enough time to actually visit more than a couple times a season. 

Well, before Blair, anyway. 

He sees to it that I get days off. That I take days off. So, now, I almost _do_ have the time to buy a little place up here. 

It'd be nice. 

Just me and Blair, hiking. Fishing. Blair making up all kinds of shit about the elaborate sexual rituals of some mysterious tribe. 

It _is_ nice. 

It's cold and clear. I can hear the stream hurrying down the slope, plashing against the bank. So far, the water is faster then the frost, but it might get cold enough for it to freeze up completely. I point out two patchy white snowshoe rabbits browsing under a long-leaf pine. Listen to the crunch of our boots on the snow. We're walking so close, and the air is so crisp that I can taste Blair's breath, and that's a little... weird. He's been eating granola bars. He smells... wholesome. 

He's not saying much, and I know that means something's wrong. But it's too early to talk yet. We need to decompress before we go down deep again. 

It's not sunny, but it's bright anyway. That cool gray-white light you get on snowy days. We haven't seen another person since we rented the cabin from George Houk in town. 

Just me and Sandburg. And so far, only the brook is babbling. 

C'mon, Chief. 

* * *

"Okay, I'm not proud of this, and usually, I'm pretty cool with the whole 'me' package, but I admit it, there are times when I wish I was bigger. You know, a big guy. As big as you, hell, as big as Simon. So I could... So I could _really_ back you up, you know? At least pick you up and carry you, goddamn it. Because, I've been thinking about it, and it must be kind of a drag being the big guy, the Blessed Protector, right? You've always got to take care of somebody, and no one really takes care of _you_ , and jesus fuck, man, how many Wonderburgers did you _eat_ yesterday?" 

I wonder how I can be sweating at a time like this, it's gotta be in the low teens, and I'm getting the creepiest feeling that Jim's hair is sticking out in little spikes like that because it's freezing solid. 

"I can't believe you lost your hat, man. It's a really lousy time to start losing stuff, Mr. Be Prepared. A _really_ lousy time," and I'm starting to sound a little loopy. Maybe I'm hysterical. I take a deep breath and drag Jim a little further. God, I hope he wakes up soon. We were only under for a second. Just long enough to get wet. Soaked, actually, to the _skin_. If Jim wasn't so goddamned heavy, and if I wasn't gritting my teeth to drag him just a little farther, just a little farther, man, oh man, I hope I'm not dislocating his shoulders or anything like that, this can't be comfortable, if I hadn't been talking so much to try to get to Jim and calm myself down, my teeth would have been chattering like those wind up dentures they sell at gag shops. 

My hands are white and stiff from being clenched in Jim's sodden shirt so long, and I pry them off him and try the doorknob to the cabin. No steps, that's good. No smoke from the chimney, either, but hey, that's okay. The door's locked. That is definitely _not_ okay. 

"God _dammit!_ " I kick at the door and it just takes it, as any nice sturdy _locked_ door should. "Locked! It's locked! Why the hell is it locked, man!? What, they're afraid someone's gonna break in and steal their stockpile of beef _jerky_!? What the fuck is _that_ about!? Hell, there's nobody around for fifty miles, and hey, newsflash, bears don't have opposable _thumbs_ , man, they're not gonna--" 

"Try the window," Jim suggests. 

"The wind-- Hey, yeah, I mean, we could always just break it and-- Jim! Jim, you're awake!" 

"Yup." He sounds like five kinds of hell. And he doesn't look all that great, either. He's propped up on his elbows in the snow, and white flakes are falling in his new punk 'do. I kneel down to help him sit up, my arm around his shoulders. 

"How you doin'? You must have hit your head or something." 

"I guess. Rockslide?" 

"Uh, something like that..." Well, me tripping on a rock, anyway. And ramming headlong into Jim, knocking us both into the creek. I knew we'd have to find shelter, and it was maybe a four mile hike back to the cabin _we'd_ rented. This one was gonna have to do. 

It wouldn't be dark for another two or three hours, maybe we could dry our clothes here and then Jim could lead us back to our cabin later. 

Then again, maybe not. 

Jim shakes his head slowly and fingers a big knot on the side of his head, above his ear. He looks _way_ pale, and my feet are starting to get numb. It only took fifteen, twenty minutes to get us up here... But I was doing all the work, so whatever cold I'm feeling, Jim's got to be experiencing it by a factor of three. 

I help him to his feet and he hooks his arm around my shoulders, staggers a little. I lean him against the door and try the window, which is, incredibly, unlocked. In fact, it glides right open. 

For the first time in recent memory, I'm glad I'm not six two and built like a truck. Jim's flexible, but no way would he have fit through that window. I stumble over a pile of boots lined up under the windowsill and Jim's uneasy "You okay, Chief?" gets me to my feet fast. 

I hobble to the door, cursing under my breath. 

"I'm okay, just a little clumsy." 

"It's the cold," Jim explains. "Makes you slow." 

Slow, all right. I forgot to close the window. I let Jim in and walk back to slide the pane shut. 

The cabin's a little one room deal, a sort of cot in one corner and a fireplace that takes up most of the wall across from it. There are three shelves lined with canned goods, a ladle and some pots on hooks. An actual honest to god _hand pump_ where a tap should be, and a tin sink sticking out of the wall. There's a trivet by the fireplace with a grill on it for cooking. There is also, thank god, a neat stack of split wood in a nifty little triangular hill next to the fireplace. 

Whoever lived here didn't believe in tables. Or phones. Or bathrooms, apparently. Looks like we'll be pissing in the snow. I didn't notice an outhouse... but then, I was kind of preoccupied. 

I'm busy laying a fire when I notice the corn cob pipe on the mantle. Huh. Kinda cozies the place up, somehow. 

I realize that Jim is shivering, those muscled arms hugged against his chest, shoulders tensing. 

"Lemme just get that fire started," I murmur. 

I shake out the match and the flames crackle encouragingly. I turn around to see how Jim's doing, rubbing my own stiff hands in front of that first hot glow, and I can see that Jim's shuddering now. That's a good sign, right? But it's unnerving anyway. 

"C'mere, man. We need to get you warmed up." He's still looking pale and tired, and I remember something. "Hey. Now would be a good time to try some biofeedback. See if you can concentrate on raising your core body temperature a few degrees." 

He gives me a curt nod and settles down beside me, rubbing his upper arms with those big hands of his. His knees are bent and he's leaning forward against his thighs, straining toward the fire. For a moment, he closes his eyes softly, and I can see him drop into a little meditative trance. 

I get to my feet and kick out of my soggy boots-- the laces give me hell, because the knots are swollen. I'm about a second from whipping out my Swiss Army Knife and just slicing them open, when Jim reaches over with a grunt of disapproval and jerks at them until they come undone. 

"You're your own worst enemy, " he gripes. 

"Yeah," I agree, plenty rueful. "About the creek, Jim--" 

"Save it," he rumbles. "Just get outta those wet clothes already, huh?" 

"You don't have to tell _me_ twice," I say, glad for once to get out of a heart to heart. I drop my coat, peel off my wet shirts and struggle with the buttonfly on my jeans. I want to get out of them before Jim gets impatient again and feels compelled to help me undo _these_ , too. 

The fire leaps up, and the comforting smell of woodsmoke reassures me. We're gonna be okay, despite my screw up. As soon as we're warm and dry. 

* * *

I shuck my jeans and shorts and cross the room to strip the bedding off the cot. By the time I turn around again, Sandburg is carefully studying the fire. If he wasn't so pale and shuddery, he'd be blushing. 

For some reason this pisses me off. 

"Take 'em off, Sandburg," I bark. His eyes go wide. 

"Wha-at?" 

"Look buddy, you're wearing wet shorts. We need to get warm. Trust me, you'll be pissed later if it falls off." 

Sandburg grins at the absurdity of that-- he's not exactly a novice to survival, and what I've just suggested is pretty far fetched, I admit it. But still. 

He hooks his thumbs in his shorts and wiggles out of them. He waves me over, holding the other hand out. 

"Wanna bring those blankets over here, man? I'm _freezing_ , here." 

I nod and drape the blanket over his shoulder, his cold, clammy hip pressing against mine as he nudges closer, tugging the blanket tight. 

"Is it just me, or is this, like, the _smallest_ blanket in the entire world?" 

I sigh and we scoot up closer to the fireplace, and now I can feel him prod me in the ribs with his elbow. The surprisingly fine, light hair on his legs is dragging against mine, tugging and catching the hair on _my_ legs, and it's bugging the _shit_ out of me, but a shivering Sandburg can't exactly be shoved away at the moment. I can still bitch, though. 

"Christ, Sandburg, don't you moisturize? Your elbows feel like _sandpaper_." 

"Moisturize. What am I, a hand model? It's not my fault you have babysoft skin, naked boy." 

I glare at him. 

He loops his arm around the small of my back, and I can feel the smooth kiss of skin, the inside of his elbow, as he gives me a companionable squeeze. 

"There ya go. Now I don't have to watch my elbows. And it's warmer," he points out. 

Damned right it's warmer. Too warm. Maybe I'm still stupid from the cold, but I wrap my arm around him in return. 

"Yeah." 

I can feel the ice in my hair melting, feel the water worm down my scalp and drip on my shoulders. It must be like wearing a wet mop for Sandburg. 

"Hey, you're getting the blanket all wet, Sandburg." 

"Yeah." He has the top sheet and I have the bottom one, and the blanket is pretty thin for a mountain winter, but maybe the geezer who owned this place was some sort of nature purist or something: one guy against the elements. 

Sandburg bounces to his feet, and I do mean _bounces_ , the guy is half-naked after all. His sheet's flapping like a half-assed toga... Hell, it _is_ a half-assed toga, and I find it surprisingly hard to keep my eyes on the fire as he hustles over to the bed again, shivering and muttering under his breath. 

I'm rubbing my own cropped hair with the edge of the sheet by the time he drops back down beside me and huddles close. 

"Hey man, can you see your way to sharing some of that extra bodyheat there? Thanks," he says, with a satisfied sigh as I sling an arm around him again. This time his skin isn't so clammy or cool, and then I realize that he's wearing the pillowcase on his head like it's some kind of night cap, and I start to snicker. 

"What the hell is _that_ ," I gasp, "You look like somebody's triple X Mother Goose Rhyme, there, Wee Willie Winkie." 

He favors me with a sly grin. 

"I don't think you wanna go there, Jim. I may be short in stature, but I pretty much outclass you when it comes to size matters in ah, _other_ areas..." 

I choke on my next chuckle when I realize it's true. 

The sheet doesn't leave much to the imagination. Sandburg is pretty fucking well endowed for a little guy. Hell, for _any_ guy. Thicker than me if not longer... 

Then I realize, 'Hey, I'm staring at another guy's package' and I lift my eyes to his. 

"Jealous?" 

I cuff him upside the head, feel the faint soggy sploosh of his hair wrapped in the pillowcase and grin back at him. 

His arm steals around me again and I'm finally warming up, and I let a contented sigh go. 

"This isn't so bad," I say. And then I wonder what the hell I'm saying. We could have died out there. We were goddamned lucky. But still. It _isn't_ so bad. 

"Nah. We could both be popsicles. That would have _sucked_." 

"But you got us to shelter, Sandburg. You did good." 

A soft, bitter chuckle from Sandburg. 

"Jim, you know it and I know it. I got us into this mess in the first place. I tripped and--" 

"It coulda happened to anybody, okay?" 

"Not to you, Jim. You're like a mountain goat or something." 

"Is that some kinda crack about B. O.?" 

He shakes his head and smiles at me. 

"You are _such_ a dork," he says fondly. 

"You know, for somebody who's practically got a Ph.D. in his back pocket, you've got the emotional maturity of an eighth grader." 

"This from a man who whines about eating his vegetables." 

"Seriously, Sandburg. This Blessed Protector thing... it works both ways." 

He gives me a wary look. 

"What do you mean?" 

"You said that when a man saves another man's life, it's his duty to do that for the rest of his life." 

"And?" 

"And you saved my life _first_. So you've had more practice. Because you've also... you know... done it more. Often." 

"What the hell are you talking about, more often? I admit it: I saved your ass when that garbage truck was making for you, but I haven't--" 

"In that first sixth months you kept my head together, you kept me from ... You watched my back." 

He looks a little pissed off actually, he's got this impatient wrinkle between his eyebrows. 

"Jesus, Jim. That's what friends _do_. It wasn't out of any sense of _obligation_ or anything. I mean, I don't want you to get hurt. And _somebody_ has to look after you." 

"I kinda thought you looked up to me..." 

"Well, I kind of have to, don't I? You're, like, a _foot_ taller than me." He grins. "Yeah. Yeah, there are times I sort of look up to you. But there are also times that I want to kick your ass for being such a dickhead." 

"I mean it, Blair." 

"So do I, okay?" 

And he gives me a little squeeze, and we just stare into the fire for a while. 

* * *

Theoretically, I should probably not get too comfortable. Jim's had a blow to the head. I should wake him every hour on the hour. 

But there's nowhere for me to take him if anything _does_ go wrong, so I'm just gonna cross my fingers and hope that this isn't going to be a big deal. 

He's nodding already, that heavy head falling forward slightly. The room is almost cozy, now that the fires been burning high for a couple of hours. It's probably not even 9 o'clock yet, but it's been a pretty god damned long day. 

And as rustic as it is, even the cot looks more comfortable than my futon at home. 

I poke Jim's shoulder. 

"C'mon, man. Lets get to bed, huh?" 

He blinks, yawns and then lifts an eyebrow. 

"You _do_ know you're sleeping on the floor?" 

"Oh, a comedian. Funny. Look, our clothes are still clammy, and there's only one bed. It's only gonna get colder tonight. Shared body heat, my friend." 

He rolls his eyes and gets to his feet, grunting a little. It's a hard floor, all right. He spreads the sheets and the blankets (we found another one in a footlocker under the bed) out, and I'm just... staring, basically. 

The play of flickering light and shadow across that glorious back. That excellent ass. That _honed_ body... 

Maybe I'm in for a sleepless night, after all. 

He finishes tweaking the bedding and then sides in under the covers. Patting the mattress, he smirks at me. 

"Just pretend you're a hot water bottle." 

I scoot in next to him and try to be cool about this. 

Huh. Firm, yet springy. 

I'm not just talking about the mattress, either. Although this has convinced me it's definitely time to buy a new bed. 

I live with him, sure, but I'm not usually nestled up against the guy. 

And you know, it's kind of scary how nice it is. How easy it would be to get used to... sleeping with Jim. 

That is, it would be easy. If the 'hey, how about some sex' part of me wasn't trying so hard to come to the fore, so to speak. 

* * *

Blair pretended to sleep for a long time before he really drifted off. He was unnaturally quiet and tried hard to keep still. All that trying to be careful eventually wore him out. Now I'm flat on my back, and he practically has his head on my shoulder. 

He talks in his sleep. A lot. Not every night, but every now and again I'll wake up and hear Blair murmuring to himself from downstairs. Sometimes... sometimes he'll say my name. 

Usually, he's giving lectures. He teaches in his sleep. Lectures on all kinds of stuff. Dream lectures, probably to classes of pretty, leggy co-eds. 

Not _real_ lectures, just fragments. Notes. Ideas, I guess. Not always even full sentences. I mean, he was asleep. 

He _was_ giving lectures. 

Now that I think about it, he hasn't done it in a while. I guess because he hasn't had any reason to write any lecture notes. About anything. 

My headache's not bad enough to really bother me, but it's just enough to keep me more awake than I want to be. 

It doesn't help that I can't get Sandburg's little dating service out of my mind. 

When Blair asked if she wanted to get married, Connor wasn't the only one who choked. 

//And he's not a bad looking guy! I mean, he keeps in shape and everything. And you know he's a Sentinel! Think about what that could bring to the bed--// 

Knowing him as I do, it's really surprising that he never really tried to ask me about my sexual responses. I mean, I told him no dice the first time he asked, but if he'd kept at it... 

//are you sure it's me you want to put in bed with him?// 

Blair murmurs my name in his sleep, shifting against me. His hair is still damp, and it tickles my arm. 

//Jim! Come on! What about my wife, my family?// 

He's warm now. Finally. He smells good, too. If we could skip the dunking, I wouldn't mind doing this again. Except... 

He's so warm. 

I start to sweat. 

I try to move away, but Sandburg's everywhere, his skin is... 

It's so hot. And I'm sweating now, so his wrist, his hip, his thigh... The pull of skin against skin, like a dry kiss, like a not so dry kiss. I can feel him, soft and thick, squashed against my leg. I can feel his pulse there. 

I can taste that comfortable 'Blair asleep' smell in the air, and just the sound of him breathing has been one of my guilty pleasures since that fuck Lash kidnapped him right out of the loft. 

And this isn't right. 

Blair's going to want a family one day. He's got a healthy sex drive, and he's young and smart and so god damned good. 

But where does that leave me? 

* * *

In the morning, the bed's empty, but it's still warm on Jim's side. I hear the creak of the hand pump and see that there's a window by the sink, and Jim's dressed now, looking out of it, scoping the backyard. 

"I wonder where he is," I say aloud. 

"Who, Chief?" Jim sounds tired, bemused. I guess fighting for the covers all night didn't leave him in tip-top shape. And after all, his head's probably killing him. 

I roll out of bed and wrap the sheet around me, shuffling towards where my clothes are laid out on the floor. Jim's built the fire back up. I tug my jeans on, and they're pleasantly dry. 

Mentally, I congratulate myself on softing the morning hard on enough to zip them up. A night practically in Jim's arms. Maybe not exactly a Penthouse fantasy come to life, but... really nice, just the same. 

"The neat freak who lived here, man, that's who. It's kinda eerie. He can't have been gone long. It's not even really dusty or anything. Maybe he'll come back soon, give us a lift to our cabin or something." 

"Maybe," Jim agrees. It bugs me when he humors me, sometimes. Just playing along with Professor Sandburg, Chief. "Maybe not," he points out the back window and I see a red plaid jacket and... and... 

"Ohhhhh-- Jim. That's a _hand_ , man. A guy's _hand_!" Well, probably a guy. It's usually hard to tell with skeletal remains. The snow looks trampled... It looks like the coyotes found him first. 

Jim nods slowly. Still looking out the window he says, "He was old, Chief." This time, I can hear him take a sniff of the musty cabin air. "Real old, by the smell of him. He probably had a heart attack while he was chopping wood or something. No one around for miles... He just... died." And he shrugs a little. 

"Why would he lock his door to chop wood in his own back yard?" 

Jim's eyebrows tense as he shifts his gaze to fix it on me. 

"How the hell should _I_ know? Maybe he was hiking back from somewhere or something. It doesn't matter any more. The guy's dead." 

While finding a corpse on the premises isn't exactly a soothing balm to my soul, either, something about Jim's reaction seems out of synch. 

I'm pulling my jacket on by the time Jim's at the door, and I follow him out into the snowy yard. 

Jim's brushing at the snow with the sleeve of his sweater, and revealing... not a pretty picture. 

I turn my head and Jim lifts his eyes to check on me, mouth grim. 

"Let's get a move on, Chief. We'll have to call this in." 

He looks a little flushed, and I wonder if he's angry. About the old man's death. Or... something else. 

It's a mostly silent hike back to our cabin, and the phone. 

* * *

It took the locals about an hour to show up at the scene, and they had the M. E. with them. They send an Officer Li to fill us in on the preliminary findings. 

"Eli Buckner, 83," the uniform tells me. She flips to the next page in her notebook. "Probably died from a blunt force trauma to the skull." 

"Did he hit his head in a fall?" Blair asks. 

"It doesn't look that way. Looks too precise, according to the M. E." 

"A hammer," I mutter, and she gives me a funny look, but she nods. "What did he do? Is he a regular out here?" I already know the answer to my last question; that cabin wasn't just for weekends or a few weeks in the summer. 

"He used to run a big time lumber operation. But he was a real visionary, you know? Was against clear cutting, and very big on replanting. He's been living up here for years." 

"I remember that," Blair says. 

"Colorful character. It's sad. We'll have to contact the family." 

"Was he married?" I ask. But I know the answer to that one, too. 

"Wife died years ago. There's a son." 

I glance at Sandburg who gives me a 'what's up?' perk of his eyebrows. 

"If you'd like, we'll keep you updated." 

"Yeah. I'd appreciate it." I give her my badge number and she writes it in her notebook. Then she smiles at Sandburg. 

"We'll need your number, too." 

"Uh." Sandburg actually blushes. "I'm not a cop." 

She cocks her head and steps closer. "I mean your phone number, Mr. Sandburg." 

He chuckles a little and she smiles again. Cute. Freckles on her nose. Long dark hair in a bun. 

"Oh, sure." 

She writes that down too, and then she says, "You guys live together?" 

Yeah, together. Who knows for how much longer? Something's changing. Ending, probably. 

"Roommates," Blair explains. 

"You been up here before? You look familiar," she says. And then her smile falters a bit. "You both do." 

"No." Blair hurries. "Never been. Uh. It's been a long day, and..." 

"Let's get going, Chief." The least I can do is bail him out before Officer Li makes him as a fraud, and me as a freak. 

"Yeah." 

"Thanks again, Officer Li." 

"No problem, Detective." And with a final bright smile for Sandburg, she heads back to her blue and white. 

* * *

We decide to write the cabin weekend off, and just mellow out back at the loft. 

The drive home seems longer than it should be. Jim's clammed up, and he's tapping the wheel absently, his face intent. 

In fact, he looks a little... Manic. Sweat's beading on his upper lip. 

"Jim? You want to pull over and get out of your coat? Or we could turn the heat down." 

Distracted, his eyes flicker towards me. 

"You warm enough?" 

"I'm good. But you look... overheated." 

He rivets his attention to the road. 

"I'm fine." 

"C'mon, Jim. At least unbutton your--" 

"Chief," he says in that level, 'I'm going to break your nose, punk' tone he has. "Let it be. We're almost home. Okay?" 

"Okay." 

* * *

Maybe I caught a bug, or maybe stress wore me down. Something. My headache's gone, and I don't smell sick... But I can tell I've got a temperature. All I really need is a glass of water and a nap. 

The thought of cool, clean sheets is the only thing that gets me up the stairs. 

Blair is frowning at me, that 'let's dissect Jim' look he's perfected over the years, and for no good reason, it pisses me off. 

"Could you cut that out?" 

"Cut what out?" 

"Never mind. I'm uh, feeling a little under the weather. So--" 

"Jim," and Sandburg catches my wrist and then drops it, like I've burned him. 

"What the _fuck_ , man? You're burning up!" 

He presses the back of his hand against my forehead and murmurs worriedly. Dragging me over to the couch, he shoves me down and orders me to tug the afghan over my shoulders. 

He hustles away and comes back with two aspirin and a cold bottled water. 

"Drink the whole thing," he warns. I comply and then he tells me to stretch out on the couch. 

A minute later, he comes back with a thermometer. 

At least Sandburg's here now. I'll worry about the future when it happens. Hell, Eli's dead and gone; I could probably get his cabin cheap. Move up there when Sandburg leaves. One guy against the elements. 

"102," he says softly. "Jim. There's something... I can't put my finger on it. Why don't you take a nap? I'll take your temperature again in about half an hour. If it's not any lower, maybe we should get you a doctor's appointment. Kramer has Saturday hours, and Gina can get you in. There's a nasty flu going around." 

I nod, anything to get him to stop looking so anxious, and I close my eyes. 

* * *

I get back from the corner store with juice, and stuff for soup. I shove the chicken and kale in the fridge and pour a glass of o. j. for Jim. 

He's kicked off the blanket and wrangled out of his sweater. He's stopped sweating, too. But when I graze his forehead with my fingers, he doesn't feel any cooler. When I shake him, he blinks at me with glassy eyes and lets me take his temperature again. His shirt's damp to the touch. 

"Oh, my god. Jim, we're going to the emergency room." 

"No," he says, and he has that mulish look. 

"Don't fuck with me Jim, this is serious. It's over 104." 

"Not sick. I don't smell sick." 

"What the hell are you talking about?" 

"I'm just fuckin' hot, okay? I can't stop being hot." 

He yanks his shirt over his head and then resettles on the couch with his chest heaving and flushed, and his arm across his eyes. 

Wait. Wait a minute. I know there's something I'm forgetting... 

Crossing to the bathroom, I push aside the shower curtain and start filling the tub. God _damn_ it. How could I forget? 

"Jim. Jim, listen to me, I'm going to put you in a cool bath, okay? And then we're going to turn your thermostat down." 

"I'm just hot, Sandburg," he says irritably. 

"Because you turned up the dials, Jim. And now we've got turn them back down. I'm such a fuckhead. I can't believe I didn't think this through." 

"What?" 

"Just get in the tub. I'm gonna get the ice trays." 

Jim is twice as naked and three times as cranky when I come back with the ice. 

"Now I'm fucking hot _and_ cold," he bitches. 

"Come on. Pay attention." And the order's not just for him. Because there's been a lot of naked Jim Ellison going on very recently, and it's just... a lot of skin to deal with. "Jim. Remember I told you about biofeedback? About raising your temperature and lowering your heartbeat and all that? I asked you to turn it up back at the cabin. Now, I need you to concentrate. I need you to get back to 98.7 for me, okay?" 

He closes his eyes and flares his nostrils, and for a few long moments, he frowns. Then he shakes his head and snarls. 

"I _can't_." 

"You can. You _can_. You just need to relax and let it happen. It was a snap to turn them up, right? It'll be just as easy to dial them down." 

I dump the ice in the water and he glares at me. 

"It's for your own good. If we're not careful, this fever will bake your brain. I'll be right back." 

"Look Doctor Frankenstein, I don't need any more ice." 

"Maybe not. But you need more water." He flicks a few drops at me and then crosses his arms over his chest. As hot as he still is, his nipples are peaking from the cold water. "To drink, man. Dehydration is bad." 

Finally, he sighs, closes his eyes again and shimmies down so he's covered in icy water to the chin. 

When I come back, I make him chug more water, this time a bottle at room temperature. The last thing he needs is cramps. 

"So. Uh. Can you think of any reason you can't turn it down?" 

He opens one eye and squints at me. 

"I don't wanna talk about it." 

"Jim, we _have_ to talk about it. If something tripped your trigger, maybe we can figure out how to fix this." 

His temperature's down, but only half a degree. 

"Look. I'm just... hot. Okay?" 

"Do you think it's because you fell into the stream? Like, your body is overcompensating for the cold?" 

"No," Jim answers tightly. 

"Something about Eli Buckner maybe?" 

"No," and this time it's nearly a growl. 

"Do you have any ideas, at least?" 

"It's _you_ , damn it! You're _hot_. You were touching me and you're hot all over and now I can't. Stop. Feeling you." 

"Ohhhhhhhh kay." 

* * *

I screw my eyes shut and try not to hear his pulse rabbit. Otherwise, he's quiet for a long, long time. 

"Look. Maybe... We need to distract you. Maybe I can induce a zoneout. It'll be like a reset button... You zone, and then come back online. Do you think we could do that?" 

"How?" And I know I sound suspicious, but my headache's back, and I'm so fucking _hot_ , and on top of that, I'm freezing my frigging nuts off. 

"Well, maybe we have to turn something _on_ , man. Like, you know, when you're filling a bathtub, if you shut off all the cold water all you get is _hot_." 

"You lost me, Chief." And I clench my jaw. 

"Jim, you have to _regulate_ your natural responses. You can't just shut them down. I think... Uh, I think this is a... sense thing. In the sense that it's sensual. And maybe I can help you out. Get it out of your system." 

"I don't even know--" 

"Overload. Zoning is all about too much sensory information. I think we can do this, Jim. Let me do this," he says softly. 

"Okay." 

He pats my arm and then disappears. I follow him with my hearing out to the living room, and he puts on that bass rumble Earth Music and cranks it up. It's loud but... strangely soothing. Easy to get lost in the rhythm, even though it sounds like someone knocking a rock against a hollow log. Then he putters around in his room for a while, and comes back in. 

"Open your eyes, Jim. And try to keep them open." 

He's flicked off the bathroom light and plugged in that 'pillar of disco' job he used to train me with when we first started out. It's already spinning and flashing and attracting my eyes. I hear Blair strike a match and then... sulfur, then sandalwood. He's burning incense. The smoke's so strong I almost sneeze, but it's mellow, too. Heady. 

"Open your mouth." 

He smears something on my tongue with his thumb. 

"Maple syrup?" 

"Uh, I would have tried honey, but we're out. Peppermint oil would be too strong. And we need to stick with something natural. Just relax, Jim. I need your senses up. Just let it happen." 

The taste coats my tongue, dark and reassuring. Pancakes a la Sally every Sunday growing up. 

The water is so fucking cold, my teeth want to chatter. But I'm still so _hot_. 

Floating in a cold bath... the water has the tang of copper from the pipes. Maple syrup, and the taste of Sandburg's finger. The coiling smoke of burning sandalwood, drifting across the disco lights like club fog. Sound everywhere. Carried and held and echoed by the water. I hear the faint hiss of the incense as it burns. Sandburg's heart, his breathing. The hush of his clothing as he moves slightly. And beneath it the lulling vibration of the Earth Music. 

"Keep your eyes open. Keep everything open. We can fix this." 

He starts to soap my chest, his hand slick over my skin, and warm, even under the water. My arms. My chest. My belly. 

Everything. 

The dazzle of lights, the smoke, the heavy dark sugar tree taste of the syrup, the cold water and his warm hand patting my face, the pulse of music, his voice. 

Everywhere. 

I'm hard, even though the water's so cold. 

I'm hard, even though Blair can't miss it. Can't deny it. I can feel him; I still remember his hot skin. Still hot. 

"It's all right, Jim. Trust me. Let it happen." 

And he strokes a hand up my thigh and closes his hand around me. In the same motion, he bends his head, his hair brushing my face, his breath in my lungs. He licks my lips-- his taste in my mouth-- 

I come. 

And I zone. 

* * *

He shudders, and I feel him twitch and spill in my hand. 

Jim's zoned. 

That's what I set out to do, right? 

Right. 

Absolutely. 

Of course, I'm so hard I just might die, and Jim's come is getting sticky on my knuckles... 

This is less than ideal. 

I close his eyes and then I pull the plug so the water level drops. I make sure he won't slip under, and then run the incense under the tap to douse the smoke before washing my hands. I unplug the light and punch the 'off' button on the stereo. 

Quiet and dark. 

I come back in and sit on the toilet lid, and turn the hot water tap on. 

I touch Jim's temple with just my fingertip, and his skin feels... normal. 

The tub fills with steaming water and I pat Jim's face. 

"Wake up, man. Mission accomplished." 

I stroke his damp hair back from his forehead and he blinks, comes alive again. 

"What the hell--?" 

"It worked," I tell him. Meaning, don't make me try to explain it. He stares at me, and then he nods once, the water burbling as he moves, hoisting himself into a better position. 

"I'm... gonna go make us some sandwiches." 

And I leave him in the bathroom with the lights out. 

* * *

I'm not sure what to do about this. Mostly because I'm not sure what I wanted. Blair's acting normal, except that he won't meet my eyes, and we eat a silent lunch. 

I don't know how much more of this I can take. 

We get a few minutes reprieve from having to make some sort of conversation when Officer Li calls to tell me that Manfred Buckner, aged 59, had folded under questioning like a cheap card table. 

Clubbed his old man with a six dollar hammer from Ace Hardware, left him to gasp his last, and ditched the murder weapon in the ocean that night. 

"I guess he got tired of waiting for the old guy to die of natural causes." 

"Kinda gives new meaning to that bumper sticker, 'I'm spending my children's inheritance'," Blair says softly. "So he killed his own father for money?" 

"Not just money, Sandburg... a cool five million." 

"Like the money makes it okay?" He jumps up and starts pacing, hands making semi-violent gestures. "I mean, it would have been tragic for say, four hundred bucks, but it's five _million_ , so that makes it perfectly understandable?" 

I raise my own hands in defense. 

"Hey. I didn't kill the guy. I just found the body." And it's not like I haven't been thinking about him, ending up a hermit, living and dying alone on a mountain. 

"And you don't think _that's_ weird? I mean, how many people go on vacation and end up discovering a corpse?" 

"Sandburg... I-- I give up! You're all pissed off, I don't know what the hell's going on. What do you wanna do? You wanna fight?" 

He gets quiet, and he sits back down in his chair. 

"No." 

"What do you want to do, then?" 

"I want..." he begins gravely, "to buy a bed." 

"Huh?" 

He sighs a little, and gives me a rueful grin. 

"I want a new bed. I mean, my futon, it's served me well, but it's on its last legs. It's really just... time for a new bed. Feel up to helping me lug a mattress up three flights of stairs?" 

"What are we gonna do with the futon? Chop it up for firewood?" 

"Possibly. It's unfinished, so it wouldn't give off any toxic fumes or anything." 

I stare at him and he gives me a small smile. 

"C'mon, Jim. Isn't there some Ranger motto for this? 'When the going gets tough, the tough go... to Lanes Furniture?'" 

"Our unit's motto was 'Beer Is Good. More Beer Is Better.'" 

"That's good, too. How about I buy a bed, _and_ beer?" 

"You've sold me." 

* * *

More than bored, Jim looks patently unhappy. 

I'm not sure what to do about that. He's glancing around, checking out the doubles and the pine sleigh bed frames, and the sleazy looking black leatherette waterbeds. 

"Jim, I'm not too picky. A new mattress, double, firm. Whatever's cheapest." 

We're practically tackled by an extremely tall bald guy in a turtleneck, who ferries us to the mattresses du jour. 

I drop down on the nearest PosturePedic to check the bounce and Jim frowns. Whatever, man. How am I gonna know which bed's right if I don't take it for a test drive? 

I spread out and get comfortable. 

Firm, yet springy. 

It's no cot on a mountain with Jim-flavored bed sheets.... but it's doable. 

"There's... Something's not right here." I open my eyes and sit up, because I know that tone. 

Jim wrinkles his nose. 

"Prefab beds," he mutters. Then his eyes go all Cop, and he barks at Carl, our salesperson. "Hey, pal, you got a permit? What are you trying to pull? This isn't a new bed. This is a retread. A new cover on an old frame. Let's get out of here, Chief." 

Before Carl can even try to deny it, Jim grabs my arm and tows me out of the show room. 

* * *

"Coffee," I mutter and he says that sounds good. 

So we end up a few blocks over at a place with fresh ground beans called Jittery Joe's. 

"Even buying a bed is a unique experience with you, Jim. Do you think you could just chill next time, or will I have to stop you from pistol whipping the employees?" 

"Look, are you sure you need a new bed?" There's a girl two booths over who's wearing enough Obsession to kill someone, and all around me is the crackle of cellophane, the scrape of plastic spoons on cardboard, the clink of forks on china-- and Blair. Smelling so goddamned good, and as hot as the coffee cup in my hand. 

If he was sitting hip to hip with me naked again, I don't think I could feel him as much. 

Timothy Leary could be his dad. Tune in, turn on... I don't think this is what that guy had in mind. 

"Pretty sure. We could try Bosco's Mattress Kingdom, maybe. Gershwin Furniture?" 

"Are you moving out?' 

"What?" He looks baffled, and he tips a little Chai tea out of his thermal cup. 

"Are you moving out because of... the tub thing?" 

"Jim. I am _not_ going anywhere." 

"Then why do you need a new bed?" 

"You really got scrambled this morning, didn't you? This is Jim on brain damage. Oh my god." 

I frown into my coffee and he taps the formica table top to get my attention. 

"This isn't about a bed, is it? I mean. What happened... Was an isolated incident. It was an emergency procedure, it was... It was weird, I'm not saying it wasn't weird, but it's nothing we can't get past. I mean... I was dead once. And we got past that. So... please. Please don't let this fuck things up. Anymore than they already are." 

"Something's gotta give, Chief. Either... we're done, and you move on. Or we start over." 

* * *

Jim looks completely agitated. More nervous than I've ever seen him. He's riled here, and it's all on me to convince him that things aren't as bad as they seem. 

"Nothing's over, Jim. You don't have to get dramatic, okay? I'll get some kind of job, and I won't move out, and you'll help me carry a new bed up to the loft." 

"But... what if you just. Slept in mine. With me." 

His eyes are steady and blue and... Scared. 

"Ohhhhhh, Jim, man. I don't know. I mean. I--" 

"Look, everything's been so fucked up. Maybe we can figure something out about the force, maybe not. 

"But this isn't about the police force, or your future, or even what's maybe best for you. 

"It's just that... I'd miss you. And... even though you fixed it, even though I'm not sweating blood, I can... I can still feel you. And I don't want that to stop. 

"So... Don't buy a new bed. Stay with me." 

"Jim... believe me. I'm _with_ you. For good." I swallow hard, and toy with my cup before meeting his bunsen burner blue eyes again. "But... How firm is your mattress?" 

* * *

I didn't know I wanted this. I knew I didn't want to end up alone, but this is... A lot more than I expected. 

His sturdy thighs, the curve and flex of his ass, the heave of his back, the deep, panting sighs... He's pushing back on my fingers now and I could... I'm close to zoning. 

Everything is... more. My fingers are dialed up so much I can feel them throb with my pulse... It's almost like that time I was four and I managed to stick my finger into an electrical socket. It felt like my hand was swollen, buzzing, blood boiling under the skin... 

And this is like that. Only a hell of a lot nicer. And _everywhere_. 

Buzz. 

God damn. 

His head hanging, his hair sweeping the sheets when he rubs his face into the pillow. I can hear it scraping against the fibers of the pillowcase. All that white, smooth skin, and the muscle jumping underneath it... I want to fuck him until he passes out, I want him to keep moving and moaning like that for the rest of my life. 

Except I know I can't hang on. I groan and he gives a little strangled grunt and then-- he jerks and spasms inside, tightening up around my fingers and I shoot, creaming his smooth, white, humping ass and he grits his teeth and mumbles my name. 

Then he hides his face in the pillow and pants, ass still full of my fingers, his body flushed and slacking down. 

I rub the small of his back and pull out, wipe us off with the top sheet and press him flat on the bed. His breath is still hitching and I rub my cheek against the back of his neck, not sure what I'm supposed to be feeling right now. 

"That was... that was... Wow. Different." 

"I guess." 

"Have you ever... done that before?" 

"Made someone come? Is that some kind of crack about my technique?" 

He rolls over to face me and squints. "Jesus. You're pretty touchy for a guy who just came all over me. I meant: have you ever slept with a guy?" 

"No." 

His eyebrows climb. 

"Roll over." 

"Huh?" 

"Face the wall, Mr. Fingers. I wanna try something." 

"I just came, Sandburg, " I complain. "Can't we just cuddle?" 

He presses on my shoulder and I roll over, he arranges my leg to suit him, and I hear him slicking up his fingers. 

"Sandburg--" I grunt, when he wriggles a finger into me. It's pretty fucking weird to feel his pulse from the inside... But he feels good. Everything is good. He leans up on one arm, his stubble scraping my shoulder before his hot muttering breath curls in my ear. 

"You're so hot, Jim. Oh my God. I want inside you so bad... I can't believe it. You're so hot, god, god, god... just my fingers..." 

He hits the jackpot in there, and it's a mule kick of sensation, almost too much after coming, and I squirm and moan and I can't get hard, but sweet Christ I like this... 

"I could come just from this," he murmurs dreamily, licking my ear. 

"I did," I remind him. 

"You did. You did. And I know why, too. I know. I love you. Gonna fuck you. Fuck you long... and-- and deep... oh. Not this minute, but... I'm just gonna... oh, Jim..." 

Yeah. 

He's gonna. 

And I'm gonna buy him a new bed. Double, extra firm. 

Just for weekends, and a few weeks in the summer. 


End file.
